


in the heartland

by palateens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Lack of Communication, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 09:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15191633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: It's nearly impossible to find the right people to make a roadtrip not just bearable, but fucking fun. Jeffery Charles Troy is not that kind of guy.





	in the heartland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightningsticks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningsticks/gifts).



The thing about road trips isn’t that they’re bad, Kent thinks to himself as a Missouri’s rolling hills and balming humidity engulf Jeff’s car in proverbial flames. It's that they're tedious to plan, worse to execute and nearly impossible to find the right people to make it not just bearable, but fucking fun.  

Lots of people on Kent’s team could fit into that category. Johnny, their backup goalie, for example, has great taste in weed and even better taste in dudes. His best friend, Perry, is practically his soulmate and they could talk for hours in even the shittiest of circumstances (and they have, many times). Even Scrappy would be fun for playing car games and blasting good tunes.

Jeffery Charles Troy is not that kind of guy. He’s not fun or amicable in any sense of the word. He’s a stoic killjoy bent on making Kent’s life as tedious as possible. He’s only been with The Aces for five months for fuck’s sake, and he’s already bent on making every interaction with Kent as awkward and stifled as possible.

The mixtape Jeff has been blasting for two hours ends. Kent lets out a sigh of relief. Until Jeff goes rifling through the center console and pops out a fucking Bruce Springsteen CD. Who even owns those?

Kent groans, rolling his eyes as  _ Born in the USA _ blasts through the speakers.

“What?” Jeff says defensively. 

“Nothing,” Kent says. 

“No, you clearly have something to say,” he says. “So on with it already. What do you have against The Boss?” 

Kent raises an eyebrow. “Nothing when he isn’t being blasted for three hours straight.” 

“What? Because fucking Britney Spears is so much better?” Jeff says. 

He sneers. “Then again, do you have to be such a fucking Jersey Boy? Ever heard of not being a stereotype or didja lose the memo whenever you got your first gold chain?” 

Jeff has the audacity to chuckle.  “You’re gonna have to chirp better than that to get under my skin, Parser.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kent mutters. 

The low timber of Jeff’s laugh fills the car for an obnoxiously overdrawn amount of time until it devolves into humming along with Springsteen. 

Jeff has been a thorn in Kent’s side since day one. Him and his stupid “too serious for fun” attitude and his need to approach  _ everything  _ pragmatically and his dorky haircut that's at least six years outdated with his ridiculously buff arms and his soft lips that look really fu— 

He groans internally. His new center is a pain in his ass and unfortunately, stupidly attractive. Like, people who take Flat Earth theorists seriously levels of stupid. Jeff is to hot as someone unlearning everything they learned in kindergarten is to stupid. That's how hot he is.

Plus, a good indication that Kent should stop hate reading subreddits to make Jeff’s offensively terrible taste in music sound better by comparison. Clearly, it's not helping. 

“We should get gas soon,” Jeff says a little while later. 

“Sure,” Kent says as he leans against his window. 

“Probably need to stop for lunch soon too."

“Cool,” Kent says. 

“That’s all you have to say?” 

Kent furrows his brows. “Uh, yea. Sounds like a plan.” 

Jeff sighs. “Jesus fucking—you make it really hard to like you, you know that? You could at least try to keep a fucking conversation.”

The comment gets under Kent’s skin like a thousand tiny needles. He’s knows who he is, people either like him or don’t. He’s not in the business of letting people who’ve already passed judgement on him get too close. If someone doesn’t like him at his worst, they won’t think much of him at his best. Not that his best exists anymore.    

“What can I say?” Kent says bitterly. “I’m just a dirty New Yorker right?”

“That was a chirp, Parse,” Jeff says. “And that was months ago when you got thrown in the sin bin for—”

“I was there, and you sounded pretty fucking sincere,” he says. 

Jeff tries to protest but Kent ignores him. There’s no use in letting stupid small talk ruin an already tedious trip. Two more days and then he’s home, Kent thinks. No more dealing with Jeff or the rest of the assholes on the team.   

Missouri is prettier than Kent expected. It's not as interesting as Colorado but it's also not as flat and desolate as Kansas. There's different textures bevelled into the rocky hillsides, and the roads feel like they might  _ go _ somewhere. There are more trees than he expected (which isn't saying much, since he expected none whatsoever). The clouds are enormous, grey, and look fierce against the unassuming—  

“Uh, Jeff,” Kent says, trying not to panic. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are there tornadoes in Missouri?”

“Sometimes…” Jeff says slowly. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Kent all but yells. 

“That means sometimes they happen, I don't fucking know!”

“Should we stop? Should we like, I don’t know, hide under a bridge or some shit like that?” 

Jeff stares at him incredulously. “We’re fine. Those aren’t tornado clouds. Let’s just...wait til we get to a gas station.” 

Kent doesn’t trust Jeff as far as he can throw him, but he swallows thickly and keeps his mouth shut as Jeff continues to drive. They don’t see any gas signs for the next ten miles. Kent tells Jeff they should just get off at the nearest exist and find a storm shelter. Jeff insists they have nothing to worry about. Three miles later it starts to rain and doesn’t stop. 

About a mile after that, Kent can barely see a foot in front of the car. To say that it’s raining cats and dogs would be an understatement, and a disservice to cats everywhere. It’s more like a nonstop waterfall during which one of Kent’s least favorite people has decided to continue to drive at 65 miles per hour. Jeff gets another two miles before he, finally, starts to slow down. 

“It’s getting hard to see out there,” Jeff says with a low whistle.

“Then pull over,” Kent says.

“Why?” 

“So you don’t get us fucking killed!”

Jeff gawks. Even his stupid expressions look too pretty to be pissed at. Fucking asshole. 

“What? So you don’t trust me?” 

Kent hears himself laugh. “You’re driving recklessly, what’s there to fucking trust?”

“If you fucking trusted me to do my goddamn job we’d be fine,” Jeff insists. 

“Maybe if you were fucking careful and gave a shit about me I could,” Kent snaps, realizing that they aren’t talking about driving anymore. 

Jeff opens his mouth to argue when they hear the sound of a big rig honking behind them. In the years that follow, Kent will remember precisely three things about this moment. One, he is screaming at the top of his lungs. Two, Jeff is most certainly screaming as well as he jerks them off the side of the road, tumbling into a nearby ditch. Three, the feeling of Jeff’s arms bracing him tightly after crashing is _the most_ comforting thing Kent has ever felt. 

It takes him a minute to really process the events, and longer to release his own grip on Jeff. Kent’s heart will not stop pounding as his eyes scan the car. It seems pretty intact, minus some obvious damage to the front. He pats himself slowly, making sure he’s actually alive and not injured. 

Then his eyes meet Jeff’s. His hands have a mind of their own, tracing every inch of Jeff's arms, torso, and face. Jeff doesn’t break eye contact. His expression is just as spooked as Kent feels. He wonders if Jeff can hear what Kent’s thinking. If he knows that Kent would really hate it if something happened to him—no matter how much of a killjoy he can be or how shitty his taste in music is.   

Jeff’s fingers tighten around his arms.  

“Who says I don’t give a shit about you?” Jeff rasps. 

In the years that follow, Kent will remember three things about this moment: how warm Jeff’s fingers are against his skin, how soft Jeff’s lips feel as they catch his, and how a Mellencamp song miraculously found its way onto Jeff’s playlist. 

Their first kiss is beautiful, spur of the moment, and undeniably crazy. Just like them. 

**Author's Note:**

> fic title - lyrics from Jack and Diane by John Mellencamp


End file.
